


Until It Bleeds Black

by reapertownusa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-23
Updated: 2010-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is struggling to cope after his return from hell - it turns out torturing souls is a hard habit to break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until It Bleeds Black

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Dark imagery and themes of torture. 
> 
> Author’s Note: Written for spn_blindfold prompt - _Alastair/Dean, D/s+Stockholm syndrome, Dean blissed out in sub space while he tortures someone. Or anything about how Dean being brought to life was like the world's most fucked up long lasting version of subdrop._

Another shiver wracked through Dean’s body. It was always cold. No matter how many layers he wore, regardless of how high he cranked up the thermostat or how thickly the sweat drenched his overheated skin – it was always cold without the fire. 

The coolness of a hand pressed against his slick forehead. Dean jumped at the unexpected sensation. Bloodshot eyes flashed up to see Sam staring down at him, his brother’s face a mask of concern. 

“Dean, you’re sick.” 

A pulse of shame jolted through him. He nodded in agreement and turned his head away just enough to dislodge Sam’s long fingers. A comfort he didn’t deserve. Briefly he wondered what those fingers could do, wondered if they could tear as deeply as Alastair’s had. But he knew they couldn’t. Nothing could. 

“I know.” 

With the barely audible words he admitted to his own damnation. He lowered his head to hide the truth of what he had become. There was no doubt in his mind that his eyes shined black. 

“That’s it,” Sam said. “We’re going to the hospital.” 

Dean didn’t hear him. His attention was caught by the glint of a knife held loosely at Sam’s side. Vaguely Dean recalled that Sam had been in the middle of cleaning it. He wanted the blood on it to be his own. 

In his mind he striped the clothing from his skin that craved to be bare - to be bared for someone that knew how to abuse it. He spread over the bed, crimson soaking past the mattress straight through to the floor. In reality, he shoved off the bed and grabbed a jacket. 

Sam released an exasperated sigh. Dean knew this wasn’t fair to his brother, but if Sam knew, he’d let him go. He’d let him go for good. 

“Dean, where are you going?” 

“Out.” 

The door slammed before Sam could burn his ears with more empty platitudes. Everything would be okay, his brother promised. Sam didn’t understand what now qualified as okay. Sam could never know that when he was okay, Alastair was smiling up from the depths of the Pit. 

Out in the night, the darkness was familiar, but hollow and the cold bit further through to the marrow of his bones. His quick strides faltered as a wave of dizziness flowed over him. He detoured to the side street behind the cheap motel. There he found a deep enough shadow that he could let go. 

Back to the wall, he slid down until his knees were tucked to his chest, his arms wrapped desperately around himself as if they could somehow hold in the broken pieces of his soul. With an uneasy breath, Dean dug a lighter from his pocket and flicked the flame to life. 

The weakness in comparison to what he desired was laughable. Still he ran his hand over it, quickly at first and then taking his time, letting the tender skin of his palm blister. The feint hint of pain was dulled by the desire for more. 

No one on earth could bring the pain he needed, no one but him. It was why being around Sam was getting harder every day. The unwanted tenderness, the concern he didn’t deserve, was no more than a mild annoyance. Chasing Sam away wasn’t his intent, but he was terrified for his brother. Alastair’s ghost wasn’t the only demon in him. 

With the lighter again relegated to his pocket, he staggered to his feet. Putting off the inevitable wouldn’t change what he had to do and he couldn’t risk Sam catching up with him. 

At times, the thought of Sam’s split sternum served as well as his. Cracking open his brother would be the ultimate achievement in Alastair’s eyes. It would earn Dean the only source of reassurance he could now accept. Every breath was a struggle against that tantalizing possibility. 

No matter how hard he fought, it was always there. It whispered the promise of release, of searing heat if only he would surrender. And he wanted to. Not to hurt his brother, Sam’s safety was the one thing he truly wanted. It was worth never being whole again. So he was forced to make other arrangements. 

He’d grown progressively lax about choosing his subjects. Every time it got easier and that nearly scared the hell out of him. Nearly. This time she was a dead ringer for Ruby. Dean couldn’t decide whether that would amuse Alastair or if it just made him pathetic. 

That he was pathetic was obvious. He stood naked with the straight razor clutched in his hand. At least this time he’d had the foresight to strip. After the first time he’d had to break into a thrift store in the middle of the night to scrounge up a shirt that matched the one he’d struggled to burn. It had been too damp with crimson stains to light. Only his girl of a brother would notice that the shirt was a different color of blue. And Sam had noticed. Dean couldn’t afford to make that mistake again. 

The girl was spread bound and gagged against a grungy brick wall. Her eyes shouted what her mouth could not. Alastair’s voice chastised him. It was poor showmanship to muffle the bitch’s screams. That much was true, but in this small town he wasn’t afforded the luxury of hearing her beg. At least that was his excuse. He would never admit that what remained of his soul couldn’t withstand the bombardment of pleas. 

It was always the first slice that was the hardest. The rest came in the fluid, automatic motions of muscle memory. Finely crafted angles, precision laid patterns all mirrored the gashes that had been carved into his own soul. When he worked, everything else fell away. He found the approval, the control. But his technique still needed refining. 

There was no end in hell while here on earth the gouging cuts learned in the Pit tore all traces of flesh from bone in a comparative instance. If Alastair were here he would insist on further lessons to hone Dean’s self control. He’d yet to have success in fine-tuning on his own. Once the razor was in his hand he lost all sense of self. 

From the perception of his conscious mind, one moment a living girl was there and in the next only mangled flesh. He didn’t remember the individual. After over a decade of carving, they all bled together. 

The blood was doused from his skin with a flask of holy water. He unconsciously flinched in the instant before the liquid flowed over him. Someday it would burn, but not tonight. When he was finished he took a gulp from the flask for good measure, just to be sure. It would come back up later tonight when reality came crashing back down. In this moment, he didn’t care. 

He glanced at his watch as he slipped it back onto his wrist. Sam was going to bitch him out when he got back to the room. It didn’t matter. His brother could flay all the skin from his bones and it would never be enough. He quickly slipped back into his clothes before the coldness could again set in.


End file.
